The Man I Used To Be
by Sweet Little Mary Sue
Summary: Imagine if death hadn't come to Bill Sykes that day. What if his scarf had broken, and sent him tumbling to the ground, where he hit his head and lost his memory instead? Let's say that this happened, and that he was discovered by a woman who took him into her home and nursed him back to health, and that they fell in love as he recovered...Bill/OC.
1. Chapter One

The Man I Used To Be

Sweet Little Mary Sue

Synopsis: Imagine if death hadn't come to Bill Sykes that day. What if his scarf had broken, and sent him tumbling to the ground, where he hit his head and lost his memory instead? Let's say that this happened, and that he was discovered by a woman who took him into her home and nursed him back to health, and that they fell in love as he recovered. What would happen when his memory started to return to him? How would she react when she learned who he was, and the sort of man that he'd been? It's been said that true love conquers all, but can it truly overshadow the ugliness of the past?

Disclaimer: I cannot claim anything in this story as mine, save for my OC, Elizabeth, and any and all characters that she brings along from my imagination.

Author's Note: My inspiration for Bill Sykes is taken solely from Tom Hardy's portrayal of the character…which comes as a _huge_ surprise to those readers who know me, am I right? I would also like to mention that I changed the location where Bill's death occurred. I took him back to the forest, where it was quiet and peaceful, save for what only he could see and hear, because my OC lives in the woods, not in London, and, besides which, I couldn't come up with a single reason for her to be wandering about in the sewers.

Rating Advisory: This story is rated **M** for violence, mild language, and eventual citrusy smut, both limes and lemons.

Chapter One

Elizabeth's POV

I knew that it was no use to cry, I knew that doing so only gave power to those who hurt me, but try though I might, I couldn't help but weep a little as I made my way home. My basket, which I'd hoped to fill with food, bounced emptily against my hip, and my tummy rumbled persistently, to remind me that it hadn't been properly filled for some time, as if I'd needed to be reminded. It seemed that there were three options available to me, now that all of the money was gone, and none of them were palatable, though two of them definitely outweighed the third as being the least disagreeable.

The first choice that I had was to accept my fate and starve to death, which, I suppose, ought to have been the one that upset me the most, given that it resulted in my demise, but, surprisingly enough, it wasn't the one that was absolutely unacceptable to me. I didn't like the idea of giving up, because I prided myself on the fact that I'd never done so, no matter how difficult life had become, but it would be better to do so, and die with a little dignity, as opposed to disgracing myself altogether, wouldn't it?

My second alternative was to take to begging on the street corners for coin, which, surprisingly, was the most preferable of the options available to me, in spite of the fact that I'd promised myself that I would never, _ever_ do so. I would have preferred to pay my own way, but the only positions available to women were as a governess or maid, and I lacked the education for the former, and the references for the latter. Granted, there was one other _occupation_ that a woman could undertake, if she could stomach it, but I couldn't do it, I'd just as soon die…..

My third choice was, of course, prostitution, and that was something that I would _never_ lower myself to do. I'd starve first, I would rob a bank or become a cutpurse, any other iniquity would serve as a palatable alternative, when the only other option available to me was to lift my skirts and service a man sexually. I knew that there were women who sold themselves all over London, and I did not fault them for doing what they felt they must to survive, but it wasn't a viable alternative for me…which meant that I really only had two choices, didn't I, unless I wanted to take up thievery, that is.

The forest was peaceful and quiet, the only noise to be heard was the bubbling and gurgling of the creek and the sound calmed me somewhat, just as it always had. I'd always run to hide in the woods when an "associate" of Papa's would pay a visit, because they always seemed to want me to sit on their laps whenever they came around, and it hadn't taken me long to learn that unpleasant things happened when you sat in a man's lap, humiliating and degrading things, the sort that Papa would see, but would turn away from, because it seemed to buy him a little patience and extra time to pay his debt, if he turned a blind eye to their fondling hands.

I'd promised myself that my daughter would never know the ugliness that the world could hold for a female. I'd vowed that she would know nothing but happiness and love, which was a thoroughly unrealistic pledge to make, and I suppose that was why the Almighty had never led me to the man who would be my husband, and give me the daughter, the _children_, that I so desperately longed for. Maybe I was meant to be alone, an orphan and a spinster, left to wander about, suffering and scraping to survive. Perhaps I wasn't meant to know happiness or love myself, much less to offer those things to another being. Maybe I…..

"Maybe you ought to stop feeling so sorry for yourself," I chastised myself, dashing my fingers beneath my eyes, to wipe away the tears that had fallen, as well as those that were waiting to take their place. "At least you have a roof over your head and a fireplace and a bed to sleep upon. You have food in your cupboard as well, you will simply have to be sparing with it, and….."

My voice trailed away as I came upon the sight of a man lying beneath the large oak tree that was steps from my front door. It would have been an odd, and alarming, sight, had he been napping, but I could see that he wasn't partaking of a quiet rest beneath my tree. He was lying on his side, with his arms and legs sprawled out, and he had a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, a torn and tattered piece of knitted warmth…the other half of which was still tied to the branch over his head.

I'd heard of circumstances where a person had taken their own life, I could remember Mama telling Papa that he was doing that to himself, very slowly, with his need to gamble and to drink, but I'd never imagined that I would see someone who'd taken that route out of life. Granted, I had accepted the possibility that I might end up starving to death, in order to save myself from the shame of having to sell myself, but I'd never taken the time to fully consider what lay ahead of me, if I chose to end my life, and gazing upon the man who'd made his choice, I realized that I couldn't follow through with it myself, no matter how bleak my life might become.

I approached him very slowly and bent to place my basket on the ground as I reached his side. His hat had fallen away from him and I picked it up and brushed it off before I placed it, very carefully, on top of my basket. I suppose there was no need for me to be so gentle with his belongings, given that he was dead, but it would have felt wrong to behave in any way that might be called disrespectful.

I rearranged his hat a dozen different ways, collecting my courage, and then I slowly straightened and forced myself to move to his side, where I gathered my skirts and knelt, to take his hand into mine. There was no need to pay any mind to decorum, not out here, where there were no witnesses, save for those with wings or fur, and I felt like I ought to offer a final comfort and kind word to this man, even though he was a stranger to me.

His hand was surprisingly warm to the touch; it was strong and felt calloused against my own palm, which was nowhere near as soft as a gently bred lady's hand would have been. He was, or, rather, he had been a very handsome man, in spite of the scars that crisscrossed his cheeks, and it shamed me to realize that I was admiring the fan of eyelashes that rested on his blood-spattered cheeks, and the arch of his eyebrows, as well as the fullness of his lips. For a moment, a brief instant, I was overcome by a shameless impulse, one that encouraged me to trace my fingertip across his eyelashes, and his eyebrows, and finally, across his lips, but thankfully I managed to resist the urge to do so.

I couldn't say how long I knelt there, holding his hand and studying him, murmuring soft words of kindness to him, before it dawned on me that he was breathing, but I would like to believe that it wasn't a lengthy time. I'd always considered myself to be a woman who was fairly intelligent, even though I lacked what would be considered a proper education, and it would have embarrassed me, if too much time had passed by before I realized that the man that I'd assumed was dead was, in fact, very much alive.

His chest was rising, steadily, yet softly, which is why I hadn't taken notice of it, especially since I was too busy looking at the splashes of blood that were resting on his cheek…along with the details of his handsome visage, which had served to thoroughly distract me. I was relieved that he was alive, so much so that my heart, which had grown heavy with sadness, lightened happily, and I started to draw my hand away from his, to rise and fetch the small skin of water that was in my basket, but he tightened his hold on me and opened his eyes to look at me.

"Will you ever be able to forgive me?" he croaked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me. "I didn't mean to do it; you know that, don't you?"

I started to answer him, to tell him that he didn't know me, and he hadn't done anything to me that required forgiveness, but he lost consciousness before I could say a word. I knew that I had to help him. He needed rest and care and food…I just wondered how on earth I was ever going to be able to get him into my home, now that he was unconscious once more.

Bill's POV

There was a woman humming off to my side, and I gathered that she was the one who was washing my face with a soft cloth and warm water, but what I couldn't understand was _why_ she would be doing so. The bed that I was lying on was plush and comfortable, and I could not remember the mattress that I usually slept upon, but I knew, somehow, that it wasn't nearly as cozy as the one that I was resting upon at that moment, and I wondered how I'd come to be where I was, when some distant thought in my mind told me that I ought to have been as far from comfort and kindness as a body could get.

"There you are, that feels much better, doesn't it?" someone whispered, and I recognized the voice as belonging to the woman who'd been kneeling beside me when I woke up outside, beneath a big oak tree. It was the sound of her voice that had brought me back, when I'd been so sure that I wanted to stay gone, and she was the one who'd been humming as well, a sweet song that sounded so familiar to me, though I wasn't sure why I should know it. "My mama used to wash my face for me when I wasn't feeling well, and I don't know why, but the softness of the cloth, and the warmth of the water, always made me feel better."

Why was she being so kind to me? I was certain that I didn't know her, but she seemed to care enough to show concern for me, and I wondered why she did, when it seemed that she ought to have known better than that. My eyelids were heavy, so much so that it seemed almost impossible to lift them, but somehow I managed, and I turned to look at her, trying my best to recognize her, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't place her.

"It smells good in here," I rasped, and raised my hand to my throat, to rub it, in the hopes of making the pain that I felt lessen somewhat by doing so. "Why does my throat hurt?" I asked, thinking, to myself, that I must have been terribly sick. "How long have I been this way?"

She flinched, and looked like she was the one who was hurting, instead of me, and then she reached out and placed her palm, very gently, against my throbbing neck. "You smell the chicken broth that I'm cooking, and I hope that it will help your throat to feel a little better, though I suspect that time will be what works to heal you, sir."

I knew that illnesses often took days to pass, sometimes even weeks, but I had a feeling that she wasn't referring to an actual malady when she spoke of my healing. Why couldn't I remember the hours that had come before this one? Why had everything in my mind gone blank, with no reminder of what had happened or why it had happened, of where I was…of whom I was?

"What happened to my throat?" I asked, struggling to rise, so that I could see my image in her looking glass, and survey the damage that I felt for myself. "Who did this to me?"

She pushed me back against the mattress very easily; so much so that it humiliated me, and it shamed me further to realize that there were tears pressing against the backs of my eyes. I could see that she knew she'd embarrassed me, and she was kind enough to back away from me, to allow me to fight my way up, until I was sitting, and then to collapse, all on my own, back against the pillows.

"It pains me to tell you this, but I have every reason to believe that you did this to yourself, sir," she whispered, and I could tell that she wanted to glance away from me as she spoke, and I admired her for resisting the urge to do so. "Your scarf was torn, with a small portion of the length wound tightly around your neck, and the longer part tied to the branch that was resting above you….."

"Are you telling me that I tried to kill myself?" I growled, curling my fingertips into the bedclothes and pulling, hard, while I did my best to wrap my mind around what she was telling me. "Why in hell would I do something as daft as that?"

I had a notion that she was unaccustomed to hearing cursing of any sort, and I felt a faint glimmer of guilt for speaking that way to her, though I couldn't say why I did. To her credit, she didn't bat an eye, not to my foul language, or the harsh tone that it was uttered in, and she floored me completely by moving closer to me and taking my hand in hers.

"You seemed, hmm, _repentant_, when you awakened, and you mistook me for someone whom you felt that you had wronged. I can't say with any certainty that you were driven to do what you did out of guilt, but I can't think of any other reason, at least, I am not privy to any other information that would have led you to attempt to take your life….."

She continued to speak to me, but my mind drifted, and I tried with all of my might to remember who I might have harmed, who I might have wronged, who'd been important enough to me to inspire the sort of guilt that would make me want to hang myself. There was a faint remembrance deep inside of me that told me that I had hurt a number of people, but there had to have been one who stood out, there had to have been one who was more important than the others, but I couldn't remember them, no matter how hard I tried.

"There's no reason for you to worry about this right now," she said softly, bringing me out of my musings by gently stroking her thumb beneath my eyes, wiping away tears that I hadn't realized were there. "You need to rest, and the broth will be ready when you awaken."

It shamed me, to know that I was crying in front of her, it humiliated me…it _enraged_ me. There was a whisper inside of me that told me to move away from her, one that said that I was weak and pathetic to allow her to comfort me, as if I was a child, but I ignored it easily enough and allowed myself to revel in the comfort that she offered me so freely. I couldn't remember a time when someone had cared enough to quiet my tears, it seemed that all that I'd known was pain when I had dared to cry, and I found that I really enjoyed the feel of her hand…once I forced back my anger and shame, that is.

"Shh," she murmured, moving her hand to my cheek, to cradle it in the softness of her palm. "You've done nothing to be ashamed of, sir. Sleep now, and heal. Everything will look better once you've had some rest…you have my word on that."


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Bill's POV

I'd never been the sort who took notice of my surroundings in the sense of whether they were pleasing or not, but even I couldn't deny that the forest was a lovely place. I was so used to the hustle and bustle of town that the quiet peacefulness of the woods was almost deafening to me, but once I made myself stop, to look around me, and take a deep breath, I found that I enjoyed the hushed tranquility, and the clean, crisp air was a welcome change to the smells of smoke and human filth that usually filled my nose and lungs.

Someone was singing, a woman, but she was hiding from me, somewhere just out of sight. Her voice wasn't going to be garnering her any offers to perform onstage anytime soon, but it had a prettiness all its own, just the same, and I turned around, looking all over, behind every tree, growing more desperate, and frustrated, with every step that I took. She was singing the song about the cuckoo, the one that I could remember my mother singing to me, while she took the golden loaves of bread out of the oven when I was a wee lad.

_The cuckoo she's a pretty bird, she sings as she flies._

_She bringeth us good tidings, she telleth us no lies._

It was so long ago, years had passed since I'd last seen my Mum, as a matter of fact, decades had gone by since she'd died, but I could still see her in my mind, the way that she'd smiled at me while she fluttered around the room. I could hear her sweet voice in my ears, it mixed with the other woman's, like they were singing together, a pretty duet, just for me…but I couldn't find either one of them.

_The cuckoo she's a pretty bird, no other is as she._

_She flits across the meadow and sings from every tree._

My eyes were filling with tears, and I started to claw at every bush, tearing leaves off and throwing branches over my shoulders, but no matter how hard I tried, no matter how I pleaded, she wouldn't show herself to me. I thought, at first, that it was my mother that I was searching for, it had been so many years, and I'd missed her terribly, but the longer I looked, the more I realized that it was the faceless woman who was drawing me, who I was so desperate to find, and my frustration was swiftly growing into what could have been called anger, possibly even rage.

"I'm here," she said suddenly, and I felt her hands on my arms…but I still couldn't see her. I could tell that she was right in front of me, judging by the way that she was touching me, but there was nothing there, except for the bush that I'd just destroyed. "Don't be scared, I haven't left you, and I'm not going to….."

I wasn't scared. I was a man; I left getting scared to women, and little kids. She had a hell of a lot of cheek to say that I was acting like a woman, or like a snot-nosed brat. Who did she think she was? Was she trying to humiliate me, because I was flustered and breathing hard…because I was crying, like a pathetic milksop, who needed a smack upside his head?

I could still feel her hands on my arms and I felt a sudden urge to reach toward her with _my_ hands, to take hold of _her_ arms, and squeeze them until _she_ was the one who was pleading and sobbing, instead of me. It was almost overwhelming to me, this sudden desire to hurt her, but I fought against it, because I knew, deep down, I _knew_ that it would be wrong to lay my hands on her in a violent fashion. I took one deep breath after another, and scrambled to grip the grass in my fists, hoping that I could keep control of myself if I gave my hands something else to do…and felt plush cotton filling my palms, where the grass ought to be.

I hadn't realized that my eyes were closed, I would have sworn that what I was seeing was real, but in that instant the gurgling stream and birdsong disappeared, and was replaced by the crackling of a fire and faint ticking of a clock. I couldn't smell the wood, or the grass, any longer. I smelled tea, and chicken broth…and the soft, sweet scent of the woman who was sitting on the side of the bed that I was lying on, the one who'd been singing to me, and was holding my arms with her hands…the one that I'd wanted to hurt.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, hastily jerking one of my arms from her grasp, so I could wipe away the tears that had streamed down my cheeks. Something told me that I ought to pull away from her completely, but for some reason I just couldn't do it. I liked the feel of her touch, it comforted me, even though I didn't want to be soothed, that is, I was sure that I shouldn't want it, even though I didn't know why. "I didn't mean to…hmm…well, that is, I was dreaming and I…I…I….."

I suppose that I hadn't humiliated myself enough by blubbering like a little girl, had I? I had to make things worse by stammering like a dullard who couldn't even manage to string a few words together so that he would be understood. She'd be well within her rights to laugh at me, there was no reason why she should even bother to hide the hilarity that had to have been bubbling up inside of her, but for some reason she didn't even smile. She moved her palm off my arm instead, sliding it down, so that she could hold, and squeeze, my hand with her own.

"You haven't done anything that you need to apologize for," she murmured, running her thumb, very softly, against the back of my hand. "I've had those sorts of dreams myself, I can't tell you how many times I've woken up crying, and it's one of those experiences that makes you feel helpless, and scared…and angry as well, doesn't it, Mr….?"

Ah, yes. It was proper for people to introduce themselves to someone that they'd just met, wasn't it? She wanted to know what she ought to call me, and now that she'd brought up the subject, I realized that I was curious to know her name as well. I knew that I'd never seen her before, I knew she'd been a stranger to me before today, and that meant that I was unknown to her as well, and as such I ought to offer her my name…and I would have, if I'd been able to remember it.

I struggled through the cotton that seemed to have filled my head, doing my damnedest to draw out something that should have been simple for me to recall, but there was nothing there to be found. I couldn't even remember what letter my name started with, and I found myself getting flustered all over again. How could I forget my name? What in the hell was wrong with me? Had I hurt my head when I tried to choke the life out of my body?

I gripped her hand, hard, without thinking about what I was doing, or whether or not I might hurt her, until I heard her whimper, very softly, and when I saw the discomfort in her eyes, paired with just a tiny hint of fear, I knew that I had held her too tightly. I loosened my grip in an instant, I would have moved away from her altogether, but she grabbed my hand and refused to leave me, even though I'd given her plenty of reasons to do so.

"It's okay, you can tell me later," she said, reaching forward with her other hand, touching my throat the way that I remembered, before I'd gone to sleep, in a way that said that she cared about me, though I couldn't figure out why she would, when she didn't even know me. "My name is Elizabeth Harper and this is my home. You are safe here, and you are welcome, for as long as you need, until you recover, so please don't worry any longer. Please allow me to help you, and take care of you, and I will call you Sir until you remember your name, if that will suit you, that is."

Didn't she know that what she was doing was dangerous? I could be a murderer, for all she knew, or a rapist, or a thief. I didn't even know who I was, but I knew, somehow, that I was someone that she shouldn't trust. I almost started to warn her, the words welled up within me, and I started to form them with my lips, but I couldn't make myself say them, no matter how hard I tried. If she knew that I was untrustworthy, if she knew who and _what_ I was, then she might send me away…and I didn't want to be away from her.

"That suits me just fine, and I suppose that I'll call you Miss Harper…though I'd rather call you Elizabeth, if that would be acceptable to you."

Elizabeth's POV

I'd never known a man like him before. Most were open books, almost as if they were incapable of concealing their emotions, or, rather, the impulses and desires that made them behave as they did. I had seen this man's fear, he'd been unable to hide that from me, and I'd taken notice of his anger as well, along with his self-loathing, but there were things that I couldn't see, or, rather, that I couldn't understand, emotions that I did not recognize, and I wondered if I had managed to hide everything that I thought in my mind, and all that I felt in my heart…and in my awakening body, which had never known what it meant to yearn for a man, and was constantly catching me unaware with the warmth of burgeoning arousal.

I knew what those who'd been acquainted with my Papa thought about me, they'd never kept their opinions to themselves where my character was concerned, but I'd always striven to be respectable, a proper lady, even if I wasn't one. This man, Sir, as I called him, he made me forget the decorum that had been my anchor in life since my mother had been taken from me, he made me feel things that were thoroughly wicked in nature, and what was worse was that I'd given him my leave to address me by my Christian name, as if we were old friends …as if our relationship was an _intimate_ one.

I knew that he was watching me while I filled a bowl with broth, propped up on pillows in my bed, and my hands were shaking so much that I feared that I might spill the broth on the floor or, even worse, that I might drop the bowl to shatter on the floor. I'd filled a pot with tea and placed it on a tray with a cup and saucer, a spoon and a tiny crock of honey. I threw a cozy over the pot, to keep the tea nice and hot, and all that I needed to do was add the bowl of broth, and another spoon, to the collection, and then I would be ready to feed him, but what if I dropped the tray on my way to the bed? What if I spilled something on him and burned him while I brought the cup or the bowl of the spoon to his lips…to those beautiful lips which would have been striking on a woman, and were downright sinful on a man.

I'd never been kissed by any man, not even by my Papa, though scores of his acquaintances had tried to take that liberty with me through the years. It was something that I'd never given much thought to, even though I wanted a family, but now I couldn't help but think of kisses, of warm, soft lips pressing against mine…of _his_ lips embracing mine and making the tingle in my tummy hum in response.

_What on earth is wrong with you?_ I asked myself, taking a deep breath, then another, until I felt a little calmer. _You're making a fool of yourself._

I finally managed to fill the bowl, and I placed it on the tray, and lifted it from the table. I told myself that it would be a mistake for me to look at him as I approached the bed, I told myself that it would be best for me to keep my eyes on the floor as I made my way to his side, but for some odd reason I decided to look into his eyes instead…and almost fell flat on my face.

My goodness, he certainly moved fast for a man who'd nearly died, not to mention the bone jarring tumble that he'd taken to the ground. I'd barely had time to catch myself, and to stifle the thoroughly improper curse that rose to my lips when the broth sloshed over the side of the bowl, and a stream of tea gushed forth from the spout of the pot, to soak the cozy that was covering it, before he was by my side, placing his hands on my arms, to steady me.

"Are you alright, love?" he asked worriedly, in a tone that conveyed concern that touched my heart…and almost distracted me from the sight of him in his underwear. "Come on; let me take that tray for you. It's the least that I can do, isn't it?"

I don't know what had possessed me, what had convinced me to remove his clothing, but I _do_ know that the sight of his underclothes, two pieces instead of one, had fascinated me, or, rather, it _did_ fascinate me. I'd never taken much notice of the male form, I'd never seen a single man who'd possessed a physique that drew my eye, but his didn't simply encourage me to stare, to gawk, it lured me, it beckoned me, and I couldn't help but fill my eyes with him, until that tiny flutter in my tummy became a tremor that made my breath catch in my throat.

"You don't need to exert yourself," I protested feebly, as he took the tray from my hands and crossed the bedroom floor, placing it on the table that rested beside my bed, and returning to my side before I could take more than two steps. I was too busy watching his muscles as they rippled beneath the cover of his underwear, and reminding myself, to no avail, to keep my eyes from straying no lower than his waist, to stop him from taking hold of my arm with his hand, and before I knew what was what, he was leading me to the chair that I'd carried to the side of the bed, and pushing me, very gently, down onto it.

"I was happy to help," he told me, climbing into the bed and pulling the covers, which he'd tossed aside, back up to his chest. "But I _am_ feeling a little tired now. I think that I might need your help to feed myself, that is, if you wouldn't _mind _helping me, Elizabeth."

Acknowledgement: The song lyrics in this chapter were taken from the song, _The Cuckoo_, as performed by Shirley Collins.

Author's Note: Just in case you were wondering, Bill's loss of memory is more of a repression due to guilt, rather than an actual brain injury.


End file.
